Friday, February 16, 2018

In this excerpt, Horatio and Elizabeth have taken to boy onto their wagon and are headed into the night toward a nearby settlement.

Her
hand fluttered to her lips. Her skin tingled. She pushed away from the boy.
“Oh, Horatio, he ain’t no Injun’.”

“What?”
Horatio cocked his head.

“Just
look at the poor thing. His eyes are light colored not dark like an Injun’.”

Horatio
leaned over his wife to inspect the boy’s eyes that held a focus on the woman’s
face.

“I’ll
be go to hell,” Horatio said. “Damned if I know what to make of it.”

“Mind
your cussing.”

“He’s
as poor as the little end of nothing,” said Horatio.

“Oh, the poor thing, he’s burnt and scraped.
Horatio, fetch that bucket of bear-grease,” she said. Holding the boy’s arm in
her hands, it felt limp and tiny in her grip. Let’s get him in the wagon and
take him on into Solomonville—maybe someone there’ll have an idea about him,”
she said.

“I don’t
know about that, Lizzy.”

She
cut her eyes to him. “You ain’t sayin’ we’re leave ‘em him here?”

Hesitating,
her husband said, “But Lizzy, he is an Injun’ no matter what color his eyes
are.” He cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t be safe for us to have him with us.
We’re still quite a spell from town. He cut his eyes to the darkened horizon.
“Probably won’t get there till sun-up if we keep going.”

“That
wouldn’t be Christian of us. Impossible.” Shaking her head, she gave her
husband another look. Even harder. Her eyes set steely. “We’re taking him with
us. Now here, you clean his feet and
hands and slather them with that grease. And any other place where he’s
scorched. And hurry about it. It’s gonna be too dark soon.” She held the boy up
by his arms. “He don’t weigh hardly a thing.”

The
boy did not understand the white-eye tongue. He peered into the woman’s glowing
face as they leaned together. Her hair shone black. Her dark eyes flashed in
the low light. She smelled of sweat and smoke and sweetness. She gently stroked
his arm.

He
spoke to her in his garble, “I see you,
raven.”

Her
face colored. “Did you hear that, Horatio? He spoke to me.”

Her
husband worked his mouth like a sour taste set on his tongue. “Yes,” he said,
“and it don’t sound like no Apache I ever heard. There’s no telling what this
boy is.” He stroked his crackly beard.

“That’s
why we must take him with us,” she said. With her brow lined, the muscles in
her jaw twitched.

The
man tugged at his ear and then combed his beard with his fingers. With a deep,
weighted sigh, he said, “I don’t like it, Lizzy, but I can see you got your
mind set.”

Slathered
in bear-grease and swaddled in a scratchy woolen lap blanket that covered
Elizabeth’s legs, the boy sagged on the seat beside the woman. He devoured a
biscuit and salty cured ham. His gummy eyes flashing in the last of the light
as he drank from his cup.

The
man located a peak in the distant mountain range. He bellowed, “Get up.” And he
goaded the mules with a slap of the lines. “We won’t make camp the night,
Lizzy. It might be best if we push on.” The woman nodded her agreement. The
animals pulled against their load. Lug chains rattled. Grunting and swaying in
their harness, the mules pulled the wagon onward.

Soon
the night echoed with the constant sharp put-put-put
calls of a tiny owl. Other owls joined in. And just as the man and woman felt
hemmed in by the unremitting racket, silence fell over the darkened land. Replaced
by the dull hum of hundreds of bees seeking out the evening primrose. The yips
and yaps of coyotes triggered the boy to sit up and whine. Elizabeth’s warm
touch lulled him back into sleep.

The
squeaky cry of the killdeer, the trills and riffles of the mockingbird drowning
out the call of the poor-will, serenaded them as they made their way toward the
settlement of Solomonville under a deep, dark-purple sky. The moon and
glittering stars shrouded by wisps of clouds.

The boy slumbered for the
remainder of the journey, sleeping deeply. He awoke the next morning. Cradled
in the arms of the woman. His eyes glued shut. He took in easy, slow breaths. The man
stood among other men. They smoked. They chewed tobacco and spit into the dusty
street. Shuffled their feet. Combing their beards with their fingers. Gathering
opinions on the lost desert boy.

Pinched lipped. A slight grimace on
his face. Horatio Merrill pulled in his brows, turned his eyes to his boot
toes. The other men chewed over why the boy was abandoned in the desert.
Pondered if his mother had died. Or if she was murdered and he wandered away.
Maybe he was so tetched that his
fearful people turned him out. He was Apache. That was the conclusion. In spite
of the queer color of his eyes. And he should be turned over to the army.

The
softness of the first light of the day, the warmth of the blanket, and the
woman’s embrace kept the boy floating, languidly. Voices and sounds came to him.
Drifting. Disconnected. Muffled and soothing. Horses snuffled and whinnied.
Mules brayed. Dogs barked. Cattle lowed. Quarreling crow’s caws faded until only
one was heard. He thought it called his name.

“Shik’isn
Ba’ ts’ose,” the name swirled all around, riding on the blowing dust.

Thursday, February 1, 2018

In this excerpt, the desert boy is discovered by a White Eye couple traveling to a nearby settlement. A faithful decision is made

The
man clanged around behind the seat for a tin cup. He filled it carefully to the
top from one of the water bags hanging from the side of the wagon. The woman
stood behind her husband and peered at the boy. Her tensed facial muscles kept
her from smiling. Her eyes narrowed, but hesitated to touch him even as she
reached her hand out to him.

Taking
the cup, she squatted beside the boy; her blue-checkered dress billowed as she
set her straw hat down beside her. She brushed away the stray hairs tickling
her face. She shushed at the child and muttered to him in soft tones.

“Careful
Lizzy, it might have the madness,” the man said.

“You
hesh up now, the poor thing’s near done in,” she said. “And it ain’t no it.”

Thirst
drove fear from the boy. He lunged at the cup. It clattered from her hands. She
squealed. The water soaked into the sand all at once. The boy clawed at the drying
spot, picking up handfuls and shoving it into his mouth. He spat and sputtered.
Horatio handed his wife another full cup.

“Here,
here,” she said. Now the boy stood. Legs quivered. Hands shook. Eyes pleaded for
more. She handed the boy the cup, holding onto it. The boy’s crusty hands
wrapped around hers and he put the cup to his cracked lips and drank it down.
He gasped as he gulped. Seeming stunned that the cup was now dry; he held his
eyes on the woman and whimpered. Horatio handed his wife another full cup of
water. She passed it into the boy’s hands. He downed it again in one gulp. His scrawny legs
gave way and he plopped in the sand.

“Well,
it’s a boy-child.” The woman sat back. “What in the world is the poor thing
doing way out here?” Her eyes scanned the barren landscape for sign of his
people.

“From
the looks of him, he’s been on his own for a spell.” And then Horatio climbed
into the wagon. Standing on the seat, he squinted into the fading landscape for
sign of others.

“How
has he stayed alive?” the woman said. “Why would someone turn a child out in
this God-forsaken land?”

“Don’t
see hide nor hair of a single soul. ‘Cept a coyote or two and some ravens off
yonder-ways.”

The
caws and fluttering silhouettes of ravens off in the distance faded into the
darkening sky. Crickets crowded at the base of the creosote bushes set up a
near steady racket. The rasping of cicadas joined in.

“Don’t
know about water, but he’s been gettin’ his fill of bugs.” Horatio pointed to
the crickets and parts of crickets scattered around the base of the bush.

Her
hands went to her mouth and she gasped. “Oh, poor thing.”

“He’s
an Injun’, Lizzy, they eat most anything a coyote’ll eat, I ‘spect,” Horatio
said.

Elizabeth
rubbed the boy’s greasy, knotted hair gently. Her touch radiated from the crown
of his head to the tips of his cracked and caked toes. His body melted. His
eyes, reflecting coppery in the light, turned to the strange otherworldly
woman.

Her
hand fluttered to her lips. Her skin tingled. She pushed away from the boy.
“Oh, Horatio, he ain’t no Injun’.”

About Mitch

Mitch Terry, whose family background includes both working cowboys and prominent Cherokee Indians, of which he is a registered member, grew up running the dirt roads of rural Northeast Oklahoma. The influence of family lore and storytelling drove his life-long passion of writing-ultimately culminating in his first novel, The Big Sandy. Ride to Blue Mountain is the second installment of the Big Sandy series. Also look for Mitch's third novel, A Cowardice of Curs.
Mitch currently resides on Mount Sequoyah, in Fayetteville, Arkansas.
To contact Mitch, you can send him an email at mitchterry52@gmail.com.